An occurrence outside Clonakilty

It was in the detail that he revealed himself. His Visitor’s Centre, a creation of his own passion over 14 years, though blood lines were added motivation, was signposted at 1.3km distance from the main road.

Precision intrigues, and I left my route just east of Clonakilty in pursuit. I pushed the bike up tiny, winding roads adorned, in their central ridges, by tufts of greenest grass. A swallow reeled to my right, delighted by the slew of summer midges after rain.

Being alone, nature took on a hyper realism, as though I were entering an enchanted world. My senses, ever keen, were keener still.

My first encounter was with his wife. She was a warm and intense woman, possessor of the dazzling brown eyes and olive skin I associate with the south. She brought me to the boundary of their humble little property and pointed, well in the distance, to Béal Na Bláth.

It was, I thought, a beautiful place to die.

His daughter, a young girl with startling eloquence, flicked through photos projected from an iPad, pointer in hand when a detail of his life on the screen became important. She held her audience with assuredness. Dressed in an outfit that suggested she was fresh from the fields and perhaps about to go horse riding, she was uncommonly beautiful and surely no more than 16.

It was then her father’s turn.

With the greatest precision and dedication to conjuring atmosphere through image and word, he described what happened the day that Michael Collins died.

This mythic statesman of Ireland, only 31 years when he fell by a single shot to the head, was the keeper of many dreams.

Our guide was no ordinary promulgator of facts and incidents. His body became infused with Collins’ story, he traced the many possibilities of what might have happened, if this, if that. He then recounted what did occur.

He was wearing shorts, inhabiting the look of an errant army officer, run amok from some way back war. He had Clarke’s shoes, and socks that crept alarmingly high up his shins. And still he spoke on, captivating his audience with the feelings of that day back in 1922. Michael Collins was dead, and sartorial elegance would not diminish the fact.

He pointed to an iconic picture of Collins, emerging from a funeral of a comrade. To Collins’ right was a young orphan who would be mentioned and cared for in his will. At the perimeter of the picture, another child. A waif-like girl in white. Who was she? our guide wondered, like he would wage his fortune to find out.

We then took a field trip, heading outside to encounter replicas and miniature versions of the vehicles used in the would-be ambush (in truth, the ambush had been called off by the time the Collins convoy arrived. The outcome was much less certain than it might have been an hour previous. Many of the anti-treaty ambushers were already down in the pub).

Some in our party were shivering, the chill after a rain shower proving a little uncomfortable. He did not notice; he was caught in the detail of bullets and armoured vehicles and the provenance and eventual destiny of the yellow vehicle (Yellow!, he enthused. Can you believe it!) which carried The Big Fella on his last journey.

This whole mission of veneration – the museum, the talk, the reconstructed vehicles – was his own private venture. It was a daily homage truly worthy of a king, made real by a simple, precise volition.

As I left the Michael Collins Visitor Centre, the weak-bladdered clouds of West Cork gave way again.

But I did not care much. The cradle of Clonakilty was but a few short minutes away.

Brian McIntyre. August 2013

About Rothar Republic

My name is Brian McIntyre. During late July and August 2013 I am cycling the coast and borders of the Republic of Ireland, and using the opportunity to raise money for charity (The Peter McVerry Trust).

In the lead-up to the 100th anniversary of 1916, I’m interested to see how our little country is doing. Cycling its perimeter, observing and talking to its people, is my own way of taking the lie of the land.

I figure this is a 28 day-long expedition covering about 2,500km.

All monies go directly to the Peter McVerry Trust which supports young homeless people in Dublin to break the cycle of homelessness and move towards independent living.

http://www.mycharity.ie/event/rotharrepublic

If easier, consider sending me a pledge through private message.

Many thanks.

Man of Mizen

There is a deliciously biting scene in the movie ‘Wilde’ in which Constance, Oscar’s wife, seeks advice regarding her husband’s wayward attachment to Lord Alfred Douglas.

In imperious tones, Lady Mount-Temple – voicing one of the movie’s central motifs by means of contrast – dismisses Bosie’s indigent, entitled life and his general inability to create anything from anything.

‘The empire wasn’t built by people like Bosie Douglas’.

The man standing in front of me was a fit and clear-eyed Corkman, perhaps in his late fifties. His manner was unassuming, deriving its charisma from restraint. His movements were measured, his language practical and, at every turn, he wished to help me just a bit more. He was a man who couldn’t do enough.

I bonded with the multi-tasking Postmaster of Góilín on the subject of coffee. From behind his shop counter, away from the Post Office teller position, he gently tapped a large, freshly baked wedding cake from its tin, and agreed with me that coffee really is best enjoyed black and filtered.

The air itself had calorific content, such was the deliciousness of his Post Office aromas.

It was early Saturday morning and we gabbed away freely whilst I searched for a telephone number from his directory, simultaneously sipping coffee and eating a freshly baked croissant.

I mentioned my plan to go out to Mizen Head, some 10km to the south west.

Mizen, he said. Mizen is worth a visit.

In a nonchalant manner he described the detail of what I might find there. A visitor centre, a new bridge spanning the rocks to the old lighthouse quarters, a state-of-the-art simulator to recreate the experience of docking a ship, a café…

He took the directory from me and hunted out the telephone number I sought.

I helped create the place, he said, casually.

Really?, I exclaimed, intrigued by such a coincidence.

Myself and three friends. There was nothing there. It’s our Land’s End and there was nothing there.

The Postmaster of Góilín recounted how they rented the land around Mizen from Irish Lights, augmented the property with land contributions from local farmers, and slowly built the now famous tourist destination. First a car park, then the visitor experience, then the café, then the reconstructed bridge.

I was chairman for ten years. I’m only vice-chair for the last five, he smiled. It was hard work. You’ll like Mizen.

Lacking a phone signal, as was usual for me, he made the call to book my accommodation for the day’s end. He was a man who could not do enough.

I left his Post Office, a tiny empire of calm and creativity and care, feeling well-fed, well-informed and well-organised.

I simply could not wait to arrive at Mizen Head, to see all that he had imagined, all that he had built, and from nothing, nothing at all.

Brian McIntyre. August 2013.

About Rothar Republic

My name is Brian McIntyre. During late July and August 2013 I am cycling the coast and borders of the Republic of Ireland, and using the opportunity to raise money for charity (The Peter McVerry Trust).

In the lead-up to the 100th anniversary of 1916, I’m interested to see how our little country is doing. Cycling its perimeter, observing and talking to its people, is my own way of taking the lie of the land.

I figure this is a 28 day-long expedition covering about 2,500km.

All monies go directly to the Peter McVerry Trust which supports young homeless people in Dublin to break the cycle of homelessness and move towards independent living.

http://www.mycharity.ie/event/rotharrepublic

If easier, consider sending me a pledge through private message.

Many thanks.

Raining cats and dogs in Kinsale

I sauntered out, in Kinsale, with a lost & found leopard print umbrella held aloft.

‘It’s a bit girlie but I think you can pull it off’, blushed Alice in reception.

I thanked her for her confidence.

Rain is my constant companion these past two days. It has the power to render a man refreshed, but also weary.

I am a latecomer to the reading of the skies, and I find that my apprenticeship is not yet complete.

My ability to predict exactly when rain will start falling is pretty accurate – one of the few skills where a sense of touch trumps the eye or ear. A drop in temperature felt on the cheek; a slight down draught of gusty wind with just enough force to be intentional. Visually, this shift is supported by a certain shade of dark grey (gun metal, perhaps, lying on an undercoat of darkest green).

A downpour is upon me.

All of this I can forecast to less than 15 seconds – a talent motivated by self interest. Finding cover from such a flash shower takes about 15 seconds, and a drenching lingers.

I am less adept at mist as it has many forms and, I believe, acts differently on the Atlantic coast to what I am used to from the Wicklow hills.

Mist can be a joy when it is merely spittle; it freshens and quickly departs. But in the south its character is liable to change. When I see oncoming traffic with wipers going like ninety, I know I’m in for it. Suddenly, misty becomes manky.

Odd but true, manky mist is the wettest rain of all. It arrives in insipid, weak-willed trajectories – it will not bounce off you but rather cling to you – and falls at a density per cubic centimetre that would make a Killibegs fisherman cry out for his mother.

Manky mist was today’s serving from the gods and it was less than joyful to behold.

Until Max.

About 10km outside of Kinsale, on the back roads of the back roads, I was picked up by a very young poodle-type dog who insisted on running with me as I cycled.

Max was bursting with energy and delighted beyond measure to find a friend. Being as yet unfamiliar with loyalty, he seemed a fair-weather friend in the extreme, bounding behind every car that passed.

I became master because I was the only vehicle he could keep up with.

The problem was, Max wouldn’t go home. As the kilometres clocked up his coat became dark brown with the muck.

Max, I shouted through the mist, go the fuck home!

Max wasn’t going anywhere. A truck approached and I called him to my side. To my surprise, he followed that order pretty well.

I was considering dropping him into the Garda station in Kinsale when I came upon a pair of builders working on a restoration job 2 km outside of the town. There was a giant gate between the property and the road.

Max proof.

So, we made a deal that they would keep him, give him water, and I’d call the number engraved on his collar – alongside ‘Max’ – once I found a dastardly signal, that elusive West Cork commodity.

At length, Max was sorted. When done, I suddenly felt the rain again. Misty manky rain; insipid; dense.

I arrived to Kinsale – way off my target mileage – and spontaneously decided to give up the ghost for the day.

Max had worked his magic, but now this man was wet and weary.

Only to be lifted into glamour, some two hours later, by a chance encounter with a leopard.

Brian McIntyre. August 2013.

About Rothar Republic
My name is Brian McIntyre. During late July and August 2013 I am cycling the coast and borders of the Republic of Ireland, and using the opportunity to raise money for charity (The Peter McVerry Trust).

In the lead-up to the 100th anniversary of 1916, I’m interested to see how our little country is doing. Cycling its perimeter, observing and talking to its people, is my own way of taking the lie of the land.

I figure this is a 28 day-long expedition covering about 2,500km.

All monies go directly to the Peter McVerry Trust which supports young homeless people in Dublin to break the cycle of homelessness and move towards independent living.

http://www.mycharity.ie/event/rotharrepublic

If easier, consider sending me a pledge through private message.

Many thanks.

Youghal havin’ a good time

I like being in the company of experts, they being passionate about what they do. There is a fascination in hearing them talk their trade – revealing curious nooks and crannies as they go.

My doctor once asked me if I had Munchausen’s disorder, so engaged was I in the detail of how the vocal chords can get injured.

I chose to take it as a rhetorical question.

I met my friend, Martin, in Youghal the other night.

My google maps voice-lady calls it Yole. My English friend calls it Yoggle. We know it as Ya’ll.

Immediately, Marty was into it…
‘Did you know Youghal was a more important port than Dublin in the 16th century?’
‘Did you know Sir Walter Raleigh had a house here?’
‘Did you know Cromwell left Ireland through an arch down by the harbour?’

I knew none of this, and Marty was on a roll. He lectures on interior design in Cork, and his passion is social history as seen through buildings.

We grabbed some food, caught up on our lives, then, in the dusk of a warm summer’s evening, walked the town.

Youghal by the sea is languishing on hard times in 2013. Property prices have collapsed, unemployment is high, and the old railway line which used to bring Corkonians on their day trips to take the air remains disused.

And yet, there is a proud beauty about the place which will not yield. Small, tightly packed homes remain house-proud, their gay coloured doors and walls laughing out, irrespective of the troubles within.

We first observed the towering cathedral – outsized for Youghal’s modest presence – and then some of the smaller, very old buildings scattered casually amid side-streets, as though history had stifled memory.

Marty pointed out the striking stone mullion which gave the windows structure, regimenting their size in a sort of cold, filigreed beauty. Glazing back then was for the rich and, even at that, not yet perfected. Fully flat glass could only be crafted in small pieces; the mullion provided the frame.

Mullion, I repeated. There was something delicious in the word. Mullion.

Sir Walter Raleigh’s house was set in from the road and protected by walls. It is now privately owned. A lodge house juts out from this enclosure, a glorious bay window protruding from the first floor, but not reaching the ground.

Look at that beautiful oriel, he remarked, casually. I did, and also thought anew about the word. Oriel.

We returned through the town and walked under Cromwell’s arch.

‘That bastard finally left Ireland through there. Straight onto a boat’.

We smiled, and continued our walk among near empty streets, the air thickening as the light retreated.

This cycling trip I’m doing around Ireland is chiefly a natural experience – about what I see, smell, touch. In Youghal by the sea, it became richer.

Close to my hotel, we came by more 16th century mullion, its glazing long since withered and replaced.

Glass sags with time, Marty said. An old piece of glass is thicker at the bottom than the top. Time does that.

He smiled wistfully at the thought of something like glass, so impervious to change, changing all the same.

Brian McIntyre. July 2013.

About Rothar Republic
My name is Brian McIntyre. During late July and August 2013 I am cycling the coast and borders of the Republic of Ireland, and using the opportunity to raise money for charity (The Peter McVerry Trust).

In the lead-up to the 100th anniversary of 1916, I’m interested to see how our little country is doing. Cycling its perimeter, observing and talking to its people, is my own way of taking the lie of the land.

I figure this is a 28 day-long expedition covering about 2,500km.

All monies go directly to the Peter McVerry Trust which supports young homeless people in Dublin to break the cycle of homelessness and move towards independent living.

http://www.mycharity.ie/event/rotharrepublic

If easier, consider sending me a pledge through private message.

Many thanks.

In praise of two square inches

As a cyclist, I am nearly killed on the road quite frequently. As one can only actually be killed once, it is something I’m trying to avoid.

Here’s how.

A motorist is not a person, it is a role. The role of the motorist is to get from A to B.

When we sit behind the wheel (yes, I’m a motorist too), this is our destiny: we are programmed to make progress. We know the rules and etiquette of the road, but the motorist easily falls from grace. An urgent appointment, an important carphone chat, a rush of road-entitlement, a myopic focus on getting to our destination – all conspire to convince us that we just gotta get past that darned cyclist.

The motorist knows only progress, and there are many good people who unwittingly become bad motorists. I certainly have been one of them.

The cyclist commences every journey balancing not just a bike, but fate. We cyclists are glad to arrive at our destination, breathe in the air and get a little fitter along the way, but we never forget our governing maxim – ‘remember to stay alive’.

A smart cyclist knows that the stakes are always high.

In Ireland, we have been brought up on a diet of road safety which is effectively passive and disempowering. ‘Be safe, be seen’ is the general counsel which has been imprinted on my brain.

Behind this is a paradigm of dependency: make sure that the motorist sees you and all will be well.

I am prepared to believe that motorists do not wish to kill me. I am not prepared to trust that they will not.

Being seen on the road is vital, but it is not enough. Which brings me to a key piece of cycling equipment which is emergent in the USA but almost wholly absent from Irish roads: the cyclist’s rearview mirror.

Attached to either sunglasses or bicycle helmet, the rearview mirror enables me to see what jiggery pokery is coming up behind me. I can swivel it – it is indirectly attached to my head – to see exactly what I need to see.

The rearview mirror enables the cyclist to see the upcoming speeding truck which will create dangerous tailwind; the car with a trailer bigger than its own footprint and hence much closer to me than its motorist thinks; the impatient boy racer whose driving skills are inversely proportionate to a need for speed, and – most frequent of all – the average motorist in a hurry, prepared to come way too close to my bike in order to make progress.

I have asked in several Irish cycle shops about this simple safety device (mine cost $15 in the USA). Cycling retailers are aware of them, are prepared to order them, but tell me that there is little demand in Ireland.

I note that the Irish Road Safety Authority’s cycle safety web page does not mention the rearview cycling mirror at all.

Being seen is a necessity when you cycle on the roads. Seeing what the motorist behind you is about to do is also highly valuable.

When the stakes are high, two square inches of mirror could save your life.

Brian McIntyre. July 2013.

About Rothar Republic
My name is Brian McIntyre. During late July and August 2013 I am cycling the coast and borders of the Republic of Ireland, and using the opportunity to raise money for charity (The Peter McVerry Trust).

In the lead-up to the 100th anniversary of 1916, I’m interested to see how our little country is doing. Cycling its perimeter, observing and talking to its people, is my own way of taking the lie of the land.

I figure this is a 28 day-long expedition covering about 2,500km.

All monies go directly to the Peter McVerry Trust which supports young homeless people in Dublin to break the cycle of homelessness and move towards independent living.

http://www.mycharity.ie/event/rotharrepublic

If easier, consider sending me a pledge through private message.

Many thanks.

Notes on a hotel rip-off

My worst ever hotel experience occurred when I lived in Switzerland.

I had my sister (pregnant at the time) and brother-in-law over to visit and decided, on an impulse, to show off the alpine wonderland at my doorstep. I made the reservation the day we departed.

Then started 36 hours of misery in a hotel with a name worthy of a horror movie franchise: Axalp.

The lingering horror is not that we all ended in the same basement room; nor that this room was an extension of the hotel’s boiler room – dry, ungodly noisy and excruciatingly hot.

No. I reserve my disgust for the hotelier’s cynicism. He took my booking, our money, and, by extension, our options. By the time we arrived late that evening, there simply was no other choice. With gallows humour we embraced the basement.

Day 1

Indifference does not hide its face for long. Because it is never interested in detail, rarely able to think from any point of view other than self interest, it usually hides in plain sight.

Rather bizarrely, the Arklow Bay Hotel defines its dining area, three steps away from the ground floor reception, as being located on the first floor. Thus, at the top of the second flight of stairs lies the third floor where, if one presses 3 on the elevator, my room, inconsistently numbered 204, was located. Guests wandered aimlessly. One needed an orientation course to stay abreast of it all.

To my disappointment I discovered Room 204 had the level of light one would expect in the inner sanctum of Newgrange during a particularly overcast winter solstice.

Its tiny glimmer came from a side window covered in cobwebs. In addition, Room 204 stank, absolutely stank, of smoke. Several cigarette burns offered evidence in the event one had a cold.

I should have bailed, the signs of apathy abounding, but instead I asked for a change.

My nice, if harried, receptionist lady apologised and explained that she too didn’t like smoke, the hotel was full except for two rooms and, after all, I had booked late.

Her second offer was a room that reeked of mould – an acrid odour so nauseating that I actually had no choice but to return, panniers in hand. But not before discovering rising damp behind the radiator and curtains that were soaked through, presumably from an open-window policy on behalf of Housekeeping, designed to contain the stench.

The receptionist lady, genuinely nice but at the mercy of her system, seemed disappointed in me, but remained ever delightful.

I was finally offered someone else’s room – a late arrival for the wedding which was the origin of this perfect storm of business in the Arklow Bay. My room, 105 (on the ground floor), was adequate; one that I’d expect to pay my budget of €50-€60 for, including breakfast.

I was charged € 110 and any discount was refused by the (unseen) manager.

Me being tired and filthy in that special, grimy way known only to cyclists, I felt I had no choice.

Day 2

On the 7th day, God created Dunbrody House, Arthurstown, County Wexford. It turns out He was not resting at all, although I assume He took some
scones and clotted cream on the sun deck, having completed His masterwork.

The charming and empowered manager, Olive, offered me a discount by phone if I took dinner in their gourmet restaurant as well. Given I was pedalling 100 clicks on the road that day, I decided I was worth it.

Her uncommonly gracious welcome, the wonderful 1813 building, the willingness to bend rules (in my case, laundering and drying my cycling gear that same evening) stacked up like things of beauty.

As if to remind me that I was in God’s country, Olive invited me for a beer on the house in the hotel’s pub, The Local, newly opened on the grounds.

At every level, here is a hotel (or country house) that knows its business. I felt truly respected as a cyclist (not something I take for granted) and welcomed as a guest. Bed, breakfast and evening dinner together came to 100 euros.

You may be inclined to think this an unfair comparison. After all, Dunbrody is a five star retreat of reputation, Arklow Bay is a three star hostelry on the way to somewhere else. The former had rooms, the latter was almost full.

Yet for me, this is not a question of cost, but of value. It is not a question of service levels, but of ethics. It is not a question of availability, but of viability.

My view is that Dunbrody House understands that success comes from customers who return. The management at Arklow Bay Hotel, on the other hand, acts as though they believe that success comes from customers who get trapped.

May the spirit of Axalp never spoil your choices. Amen.

Brian McIntyre. July 2013.
Day 2: 99km (Arklow, Ballycanew, Enniscorthy, Arthurstown)

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The Buddha of Arklow

I am sitting in a restaurant run by a Chinese lady who takes no prisoners and displays remarkable theatrical flair.

Aggie talks incessantly to her customers and to her staff in equal pitch. I am fully aware of her stage directions. Her restaurant is a living community, fashioned with Pompidou Centre philosophy; its guts as well as its beauty are on parade.

Her flat pallid face and developed midriff give her a look of a Buddha. The comparison is only haltingly pleasing. She has a powerful, forbidding quality which is charismatic. ‘Reclining’ is hardly Aggie’s style.

The restaurant looks out on the bridge in Arklow town which spans the Avoca river. The bridge is under repair with only one lane in operation, used alternately by traffic coming from both directions, regulated by lights.

A showdown worthy of Abbot and Costello has just occurred. To my delight I witnessed it first hand as I made my way to The Asian Harvest Restuarant. Northbound traffic, in an effort to make progress, continued through a red light, and met southbound drivers smack bang in the middle of the bridge.

For fully three minutes the drivers stopped and stared. It seemed no one was on for reversing.

Aggie was neither amused nor impressed, both sentiments provoked in me. This ridiculousness is bad for her business; the takeout deliveries are stacking up and the tables are empty, guests and delivery boys apparently waiting it out in single file traffic somewhere in Arklow’s environs.

Where are you from sir?, she enquires. Her face broadens to a smile. I tell her I’m cycling, from Dublin.

Cycling! Dublin! It is as if I am a harbinger of good harvests for the next seven years, such is her delight.

You must be hungry!

The restaurant ticks on and she is in charge of every table, part of every conversation – somehow omniscient though she is but one woman in one room in Wicklow.

My eyes wander to the bridge down below, to the bedlam of locals coping badly with those lights and that wait.

If the Aggie Dynasty were to extend its rule to the whole of Arklow, I muse, there is no way things would come to this.

Brian McIntyre. July 2013.

Brian McIntyre. August 2013.

About Rothar Republic
My name is Brian McIntyre. During late July and August 2013 I am cycling the coast and borders of the Republic of Ireland, and using the opportunity to raise money for charity (The Peter McVerry Trust).

In the lead-up to the 100th anniversary of 1916, I’m interested to see how our little country is doing. Cycling its perimeter, observing and talking to its people, is my own way of taking the lie of the land.

I figure this is a 28 day-long expedition covering about 2,500km.

All monies go directly to the Peter McVerry Trust which supports young homeless people in Dublin to break the cycle of homelessness and move towards independent living.

http://www.mycharity.ie/event/rotharrepublic

If easier, consider sending me a pledge through private message.

Many thanks.